Havenblock

"Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say." Professor Joe said as he snapped his textbook closed with one hand, signifying the end of class.

"Read until the end of the chapter and there'll be a quiz next time we meet. The class spilled out of their seats in the auditorium and the professor followed them outside.

In the autumn, the trees in the courtyard of the university are bursting alive with shades of gold, crimson and orange. The students walking through the slim, mum lined, cement sidewalks are oblivious to the simulated flames that pierce the peaceful robin egg colored sky slightly above their heads. Their minds are on organic chemistry, statistics, sometimes Chaucer and the newly chilled air that seems to cut through their hooded university sweatshirts. Cardboard coffee cups become their constant companions while they balance their texts and book bags on their forearms. They are too busy to notice the beauty of the season or the jazz notes that brush through the breezes created by the opening of the glass doors at the university theater.

Professor Joe noticed it all as he sat on the evergreen colored park bench in the middle of the courtyard. The professor reached under the lapel of his tweed blazer to pet the piccolo in his side pocket and became sad. He ran his fingers through his graying hair and removed his glasses that teetered on the bridge of his nose wiping them on the seam of his blazer. Professor Joe knew that soon the season was coming to an end. He knew that soon the last leaf would fall off of the maple tree in the courtyard and signal the beginning of the dead season, winter.

In winter, the courtyard lost its vibrancy. The trees were bare and their limbs appeared black in color as they cut into the cold, gray sky that loomed above them. Living color was only residual in the sparse evergreens that were planted and the empty benches that no one bothered to sit on for it was too cold. The only thing that was on the students’ minds in winter were final exams, registering for spring classes and getting home for Christmas break.

The only thing that was on Professor Joe’s mind was the aroma of the flowers that the university planted to keep the milkweed company in the spring. He could smell the faint fragrance of tulips, the loud aroma from lilies, and the sweet smell of hyacinths that were on the still cool, spring breezes drifting in the door of the humanities building where he would stand under the stairwell playing his piccolo. He enjoyed those moments in between classes and would sometimes catch a smile or a knowing nod from one of the all too focused students rushing to class. He smiled as he got up from the bench and made his way to the building thankful that his thirty- year tradition would survive one more semester.

That past August, as Professor Joe was preparing for his English Literature class in the university library; he was startled by a hand upon his shoulder. When he turned around he recognized the Department Chair smiling graciously down at him.

“Joe,” the Chair said with a nod.

“Martin,” Professor Joe returned his nod that gestured to the empty chair across from him.

The Chair shook his head and waved his hand, “No Joe I won’t be here long.” He then sighed heavily.

“Is there a problem Martin?” Professor Joe questioned while raising a bushy gray brow.

The Chair clasped his hands in front of his chest and nodded slowly. The conversation continued with talk of tuition increasing and state cutbacks. Their beloved university was letting go several of their professors and Professor Joe, even with his long career, was on the list to be cut at the end of the fall semester. However, since one of the female professors was with child and would not return that spring, the department decided to extend Professor Joe’s employment through the end of May.

As the Chair walked away, Professor Joe smiled softly to himself. He had one more semester to engage the minds of his students. He had one more semester to make English, British, and Classic Literature come to life. But lastly, and most importantly, he had one more semester to smell the spring blossoms and play his piccolo under the stairwell and revel in the enchantment.

Unbeknownst to Professor Joe, he was not the only one who longed for his springtime piccolo playing. The enchantment that started thirty years ago did more than fill the halls of the humanities building with song; it created a magical world that survived off of sunshine, blossoms and fanciful music.

In the first few weeks of spring the aroma of the milkweed would awaken the senses of butterflies and they would flock to the center of the university courtyard. Lately, the butterflies were a nuisance to the serious students and the fragile winged creatures suffered a swatting death. But prior to that time, students were different. The doors of the theater were kept ajar so that the courtyard was filled with music as the students sat on blankets on the grass and inhaled the aroma of spring. The students allowed the butterflies to land on their fingertips .At one precise moment, a sunbeam would combine with the fragrance of the flowers and the fluttering note of Professor Joe’s woodwind instrument, the students would raise their fingertip into the ray of sun and their delicate, treasured butterfly would spread its wings and a glowing light would appear. The glow would encompass all of the cool colors of the spectrum: blues, greens, violets, and sometimes, but oh so rarely, one shade of brilliant sliver. The butterfly would then take flight leaving a trail of shimmering color behind it. The students of that era were so mesmerized by this phenomenon that it became a tradition in the spring semester to skip class, sit on the courtyard lawn, share funny cigarettes and compete to see which one of them would create the glow of silver.

Silver to the students signified good luck with their studies and the ones who were lucky enough to create that spark relaxed their minds for a semester and concentrated on less studious endeavors. Some painted and sculpted; others wrote novels or poetry or composed music but all of the “silver sparked” made the world, as they knew it, a more charming, enchanting, melodic place.

But what of the world they didn’t know? The world where the trails of shimmering color traveled is a world that sinks deep into the soil of spring blossoms, carving domiciles into mushrooms in far away forests, lingering in leaves of ivy, or frolicking in farmland harvests.

These worlds are named Havens and are inhabited by miniature creatures called Muses.

The Muses are similar to Fairies as they are winged creatures, but unlike Fairies, Muses are so tiny and delicate they could literally lounge on the tip of a creator’s pinky finger. Hence the term, more talent in one’s little finger.

Muses have vibrantly colored skin and their wings glitter in a contrasting hue.. But the most majestic attribute of a Muse is their sparkling, shining eyes.

The Muses acquire their eye color from the color of the glow that emits when a woodwind note mates with the fragrance of a flower hovering on a sunbeam trapped in the wings of a butterfly that flew off of a fingertip.

In the beginning, when the students were cultured and appreciative, Muses were plentiful and the Havens were filled with families complete with children. But as time passed and the students were preoccupied with their future endeavors, pre-muses were only created when a whimsical butterfly just happened to wander from a aromatic spring breeze into a ray of sun as the door opened to the humanities building and Professor Joe’s piccolo playing drifted out.

During the professor’s last spring semester, a silver glow and a violet glow were created.

Their names were Rima and Jubal.

This is their story.